


carry your shoes (and I'll give you my coat)

by yourlettersinthesand



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, F/M, Fix-It, Getting Together, M/M, Miracle Medicine lmao, Multi, Pennywise really is a sloppy bitch I guess, Spoilers, aka I saw It Chapter Two twice on the same day and completely shut down, spot my "eddie in yellow" obsession challenge, the quarry scene didn't happen, they're so HARD to write why would I do this for my first time writing skdjksdj
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 21:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20589713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourlettersinthesand/pseuds/yourlettersinthesand
Summary: He was vaguely aware of having showered, of being handed food and beverages occasionally, of the presence of the other Losers around him, on and off. Mike's scratchy sweater-clad arm around his shoulder, Bill's head on his lap, Ben holding his hand, Bev stroking his disheveled hair - he hazily noticed them. Stan the Man would have slapped me around the head, at least, before he held me, he gathered, before burying that image as deep as he could.





	carry your shoes (and I'll give you my coat)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! This is my first time ever writing something, much less posting it, so do be kind and drop a comment. I've been in such an emotional frenzy since the premiere.. I'm pretty sure that's the only reason why I wrote this last night in a fright and I'm posting it before I regret it. Fully applying the "no fix-its yet? I'LL DO IT MYSELF, despite it being terrible". English isn't my first language, and this has only been looked over by the very kind BuruRaven. Title is from Millionaires by The Script. For Rita and Rita, an ode to our losers. You can find me on tumblr @greygrantaire.

_Three distinct planes may intersect at a point_, a distant voice whispered in the back of Richie's mind, in the place where he'd hid the exact angle of the stray curl Stan had always sported on the eve of his neck, the seemingly unbecoming protruding veins in Eddie's hands, and Mike's scuffed smile during that one summer the farm struggled. It was something his AP Math teacher had offhandedly reminded them of, probably sometime during their geometry revision periods, pointing to the corner of the ceiling to exemplify. 

Just slightly off that corner, now in the hospital, the crack in the ceiling line had been the center of Richie's line of vision for what seemed like forever, despite it seldom being focused, more often than not blurring at the edges or clouding over entirely, from sheer exhaustion, weariness or the slight slip of his self-control, allowing his body to almost give in to his overwhelming desire to weep. He had been sitting in this very chair, blank-faced, for a week, having completely shut down once they'd gotten Eddie in the ICU, that horrible day, him improving enough to be moved to his own room only yesterday. 

Those were his time-stamps, flags in an otherwise foggy plane of existence. Haystack had managed to shoulder the weight of the man's unresponsive body up the sewers, all the way out until they'd finally left behind that fucking crackhead house and sped to the closest hospital. He supposed they might've taken care of Bowers's body, no one well into the idea of being locked up for burying an ax into the psycho's head, as traumatizing yet satisfying as it had been for Richie. But he hadn't left. 

He was vaguely aware of having showered, of being handed food and beverages occasionally, of the presence of the other Losers around him, on and off. Mike's scratchy sweater-clad arm around his shoulder, Bill's head on his lap, Ben holding his hand, Bev stroking his disheveled hair - he hazily noticed them. _Stan the Man would have slapped me around the head, at least, before he held me,_ he gathered, before burying that image as deep as he could. If he thought about him, he'd drown. He pointedly tried to ignore his own leather jacket, too, folded on top of the ever shitty plastic things that passed for chairs in hospitals, forever marred by Eddie's thick blood. He was not sure if it was due to the private waiting room's despondency or his own, but he couldn't seem to grasp his own consciousness, couldn't seem to differentiate sleep from absent wakefulness. 

Days gone by, yet he faded. Story of his life, he'd joke, had he had the energy. Unaware, as always, just slightly offbeat. He didn't see Ben and Bev's tentative closeness, didn't register their unyielding grip on each other's hands, nor did he hear about how they'd finally kissed the morning after the battle, smiling more widely than ever. Didn't notice how her hand sometimes drifted to the inner pocket of her coat, to the precise spot where her beloved postcard, no longer anonymous, had once been kept, or the quiet grief which was woven with reticent joy in her countenance, the hopeful smile she seemed to now sport; or how Ben's tendency to fiddle with his wallet had stopped, the faded paper of a love thought lost being astray, burnt, far away. He overlooked Bill's solemn acceptance of the phone call that had ended his marriage, this sudden absence having been one too many, or the slow, yet steady fading of his stutter, and Mike's newfound purpose of carrying on, against all odds, having singlehandedly carried an inexorable burden which had suddenly, finally, come to an end. Failed to notice the way they seemed to lean against each other, the howling sobs that came after a phone call with Patricia, after the delivery of a text chain comprised of pictures of their dearest, missing Stanley, the grief of decades spent apart unreserved. He missed it all. There was nothing but the crack - the one in the ceiling line, the one driven into his repetitive, lonely life, the one in his sanity. 

He thought, not indifferently, about how just a week ago, the love of his life had been nothing but a recurring shadow in faded, half-remembered dreams; about how he had lived for over two decades having forgotten the relentless rhythm of his speech, the fierce wit ever-present in his stubborn looks; about how he had consigned to oblivion the way his bare legs had felt against his jean-clad ones, laying in that twice-forsaken hammock, or the peculiar, eventual familiar pain in his chest when he'd steal Richie's yellow hoodie and wear it for days on end, hidden from his mother's poisonous gaze. He thought of how he had been too close to losing him, how he had had him nigh dying in a cold, dark, desolate place, only being able to comfort him by holding him as tightly as he could, as if he could make the souls he was sure were halves one once again, save him while never quite managing to spit out that he, pathetically, secludedly, couldn't remember a time he hadn't loved him. Perhaps Eddie had understood, when he'd mumbled that stupid string of words they'd exchanged so many times, to try and make him laugh. As if Richie could laugh when his life was slipping away in between the desperate grip of his arms.

Muddled as his thoughts were, it was nothing short of a miracle that he managed to tear his gaze away from the fucking crack when he heard the unfamiliar sound of a throat clearing. A doctor was standing in the doorway, and Ben had already jumped out of his seat in an anxious state. Richie couldn't help but admire his poker face, two jokes springing somewhere from his mind as an instinct before he discarded them. He couldn't be bothered. Bill seemed to be shaking slightly in his seat, perched between a drained-looking Beverly and a steady Mike. The light coming from the window was faint, so it was either early morning or evening. 

"Mr. Kaspbrak's condition has improved during the night", said the doctor, being immediately interrupted by deafening sounds of relief and shaky, barely muffled cries. The balding man in the white coat smiled, suddenly, and Rich only heard “He's awake-" before he raced down the hallway. There was nothing but the slap of his sneakers against the floor and Eddie's room's door, the miracle, getting closer, and closer and closer- 

"Jesus Christ, asshole, I have actual trouble breathing now", was the first thing out of his Eds's mouth, in a faint, shaky yet unyielding voice, immediately followed by "are you actively trying to give me a heart attack? Don't think I've forgotten that stunt you pulled at the Clubhouse-" but he suddenly fell silent because Richie couldn't stop crying. There were desperate, clawing sounds coming out of him. He buried his head next to Eddie's hand, and the grip in his hair told him everything he needed to know. _I'm sorry. I'm scared shitless, too,_ it seemed to convey.

A few minutes later, they stared at each other, smiling faintly. No words had been exchanged, but they knew well enough. Eddie looked at their intertwined fingers and, always the real fearless one, managed to mumble faintly in the direction of the gauze-covered needle shoved into the back of his left hand, ringless.

"So... Cali. You gonna show me around?" and there was nothing but the background _beep_ of his heartbeat monitor in the background, worryingly fast, and Richie's grin pressed to Eddie's cheek. 

**Author's Note:**

> My dearest Stan doesn't live....not til i fix that, too, at least. Soon. You can find me on tumblr: https://greygrantaire.tumblr.com/  
Please consider buying me a cup of coffee https://www.buymeacoffee.com/greygrantaire


End file.
